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DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 24: “Squibbily Bibbity Blam Blam”

“You don’t look too bad,” said Weber.

Moxley, once more in the passenger seat, stared at the traffic. Everything was snarled as they crawled through a detour. A pair of drones had struck one another and landed on a pedestrian. It happened more often than anyone liked to admit.

When Weber kept staring at him, Moxley turned back to him and nodded. “It wasn’t what I thought it would be.”

“Never is,” said Weber.

“I wasn’t sure if I belonged there,” said Mox. “I thought maybe it was an excuse. Just a way to duck everything for a few more weeks. Then I started listening to the other patients. Some of the things they said… It could have been me. It could have been my story.”

“How do you think I knew?” said Weber. He didn’t look at Moxley now; he was focused on negotiating the congestion before them. Emergency services was on the scene and had placed a tarp over a portion of the crash area.  The tarp was never a good sign. They always used a tarp when someone was dead.

Moxley blinked. “You?”

“Me, kid,” said Weber. “Why you think I don’t worry about people whose pasts are a little dinged up? We all screw up. Some of us screw up so big we start over. And some of us never get that chance. I saw the signs in you, Harry. But don’t forget, I know you. You weren’t gonna listen to me. You had to scrape bottom yourself before you’d see it. I hadda let you.”

Moxley was silent for a time. Finally, he said, “Are you really going to give me your car?”

“I’m really going to give you my car,” said Weber. “You take care of her, Harry. I’ve put a lot of money into this thing. This car is going to save your life one day.”

 

* * *

 

“Whippoorwill,” said the Dayliner’s computer. “Status mobility far from trade diamonds.”

Most of the status readouts in the dash didn’t work. They hadn’t for years. Moxley thought the car was still functional, though. The Dayliner was a big, bloated machine, with a reinforced chassis and shielding for the drive motors. Shaking himself, trying to make his eyes focus, Mox wiped blood from his forehead with the back of his hand. Through the Dayliner’s filthy windshield he saw men in black combat fatigues filing out of the back of the lorry that had struck him.

“Uh oh,” said Mox. The men carried chemical assault rifles and were moving to surround his car. Moxley looked left, then right. Traffic on the street and in the air overhead was flowing around them for the moment, but as soon as the gunmen opened up, every public alarm in the world was going to go off. He was still in the Hills, where the wealthiest residents of Hongkongtown, the most powerful among those on the atoll, commanded considerably more infrastructure and protection. Here, the streets were wider, the pedestrians better dressed. Here, there were fewer pedicabs and many more ground cars, all of these expensive. Here, even the drones overhead flew in more orderly, less cramped formations. There were hardly any overhead cables here, either, as residents of the Hills could afford to have power and communications routed and rerouted beneath the paving. Even the air smelled less acid.

The gunmen took up positions around the Dayliner. Mox watched the leader of the squad hold his arm up, bent at the elbow. He was about to make the command to open fire.

This car is going to save your life one day.

Moxley reached under the Dayliner’s dash, found the lever, and wrenched it.

“Squibbily bibbity blam blam,” said the Dayliner.

Metal shields shot up overt the windows. The rear shield did not extend completely, leaving a hand’s width crack between its top edge and the roof of the car, but it would be enough. The nose of the Dayliner belched pneumatic discharge as the snout of the nail-cannon extended. Smaller pipes appeared on the sides and rear of the heavy car.

The black-clad gunmen were shooting now. Rounds ricocheted off the Dayliner’s armor plating. That armor was the reason the car wasn’t a crumpled wreck. It was also the reason the machine burned through so much fuel. A couple of rounds cracked the treated panel of the rear windshield.

“Squibbily blam blam,” repeated Mox, and clenched his index fingers on the steering wheel.

Gouts of fire leapt from underneath the Dayliner’s chassis. The tongues of burning chemical were sticky. Whatever they touched, they consumed. Even over the sound of the gunfire, Mox could hear the screams of the men he was incinerating. Through the slats of the armor plating, he watched vehicle and foot traffic flee in the opposite direction, effectively creating a cordon around the Dayliner and the lorry.  Which meant he wouldn’t need to worry about hitting anyone who didn’t have it coming.

He hoped the Dayliner’s faulty computer hadn’t already redefined the firing command for the cannon. The car always repeated whatever it thought the codes were, but these changed at random intervals. Whether it was a security measure or just the AI unit’s madness, Mox did not know.

“Bibbity,” he said, and tightened his fingers again. Now the nail gun began barking. He turned the steering wheel left and right, guiding the cannon by shifting the nose, walking his projectiles over the men who sought to kill him. There were more screams. There was a great deal of blood.

“Shoop,” said the car. “Your magazine is cattailed.”  The nail gun began whirring away on empty, its pistons opening and closing. Moxley pried his fingers from the wheel and the mechanism stopped.

The gunmen were all down.  He couldn’t hear any sirens yet, but the Goops would eventually get here. He didn’t like his chances if he had to talk his way clear, not after the incident in the Wanfujing. He slammed the car into drive and urged it forward. One of his wheels struck a corpse and carried the Dayliner up and over it.

“Sorry,” said Mox to nobody.

But he wasn’t sorry. Not even a little.

Technocracy: Don’t Bring A Lawsuit To A Knife Fight

My WND Technocracy column this week is about the astonishing lawsuit by Cold Steel Knives against industry competitor Columbia River Knife And Tool.

Read the full column here in WND News.

 

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 23: “Drinking Helps”

“You make me wanna puke, kid.”

Moxley stared up at Weber, eyes red, face slack. He did not know where he was. He did not know who was talking to him. Everything was blurry.  When Web slapped him across the face, the world took on form once more. Weber looked mad. Well. That was just his face.

“Where am I?” said Moxley.

“You’re where you passed out, you piece of garbage,” said Weber. “In all my years, kid, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone literally end up in the gutter. But here you are.”

Moxley became aware of the pain between his shoulder blades. The curb was digging into his back. He was lying on his side in the gutter of the street, maybe a hundred meters from the walk-up flat he was renting by the week. As he stared at the apartment building and then at the collection of debris strewn on the street before it, he began to remember. The realization must have shown on his face.

“That’s right,” said Weber, looming. “They dumped your stuff in the street. Seems you haven’t paid your rent in two weeks. And when was the last time you ate, kid? You look like a two-bit hooker on Saturday morning. And you smell worse.”

“Help me up, Web.”

“The hell I will,” said Weber. “You want to lie in the street in your own filth, you lie there, you deadbeat. I know you’re getting paid, Harry. I’m the one who endorses your ‘bursements, remember? So where is your money going? It sure ain’t going to child support. I got another notice today.”

“You got… a notice?”

“Are you hearing me, Harry?” Weber paused to spit on the sidewalk next to Moxley’s head.  “They’re going to put you in the Promontory if you rack up enough back support. That what you want? Because that’s where you’re headed. Tell me, kid, why did I waste my time and energy on somebody who won’t even take care of his kid?” He drew his revolver from under his coat, holding it low by his leg.  “Say the word, Harry. Say the word and I’ll put you out of everybody’s misery. You’re trying to kill yourself slow. Doing it the coward’s way. Well, maybe it’s time you went quick, like a man. That what you want?”

“I don’t care,” said Moxley. He looked away, at the pavement.

“That’s what worries me,” said Weber.  He put the gun away and extended his hand. “Take my hand before I beat you worse than you already feel.”

Reluctantly, Mox let Weber help him up. The older man guided Moxley to his Dayliner and helped Moxley climb into the passenger seat. Once they were under way, Mox slumped against the window on his side, Weber lit a cigar and rolled down the driver’s side window. The old detective looked thoughtful. Moxley knew that expression. Weber was the most patient man he had ever met. He was determined to wait Moxley out. They drove in silence for long minutes while Weber puffed away.

“I can’t stop,” said Mox at last.

“I know,” said Weber.  “You think you’re hiding it. You’re not.”

“I don’t know why,” said Moxley. “I don’t even think I like it very much. But I can’t stop.”

“You, kid,” said Weber, “have what they call an ‘unnatural relationship with money.’”

“I guess,” said Moxley.

“Don’t guess, you moron,” said Weber.  “I’m telling you what’s true. Accept it or you’re going to die like this.”

Moxley drew in a deep breath.  “I want to stop. I want to be better. I don’t want to be this person.”

“You’re a mess, kid,” said Weber. “It’s your family, right?”

“She won’t even talk to me,” said Moxley. “I haven’t seen my son in… I don’t know. And now she’s mad about the money. I don’t even know where they’re living right now, Web.”

Weber pulled into a parking area and switched off the Dayliner. Still puffing on his cigar, he turned to regard Moxley.  “You going to sit there whining about it or you going to fix it?”

“I don’t know how.”

“That’s because you won’t try,” said Weber. “Kid, you’re smart. You’ve got what it takes to be a great detective one day. But you hate yourself and you’ve got to let it go. Drinking’s fine. Drinking helps. But you’ve gotta know where the ledge is, kid. You can’t step off. Gambling’s your poison. You got to stop doing it.”

“I can’t.”

“I ought to break a finger every time you use that word with me,” said Weber. “That ain’t how I trained you. I trained you to be pragmatic. To be realistic. Not to be weak.” Weber reached across Moxley and opened the glove compartment. From it, he took a plastic scrip. This he placed on the dash and endorsed with a heavy press of his thumb.

“What are you doing?” asked Mox.

“This is the title to my car,” said Weber.  “I’m an old man, kid. I’m signing my car over to you.  And I’m going to sign the lease over to my office off Dragon Street, too. All you got to do is outlive me to collect them. And in the mean time, you’re going to clean up your life. Because I sure as hell ain’t leaving you my crap if you’re a deadbeat.”

Moxley turned to stare through the windshield of the car. They were parked in front of a squat, prefabricated building somewhere near the Redlight.

The rusted sign bolted to the building read, “ADDICTION CENTER PARKING ONLY.”

 

* * *

 

“Some reason you left so many messages for me?” asked Shebeiskowski.

Moxley practically choked and nearly put the Dayliner into the curb. He struggled to right the vehicle, drawing bleats of protest from the vehicles around him. Traffic was heavy everywhere this time of day. “Sheb!” he said.  “You’re alive!”

“Why the hell wouldn’t I be?” asked Shebeiskowski. “And what’s this I hear about you staging some kind of protest in the Wanfujing?”

“That’s not important,” said Mox. “Sheb, are you at the office? Are you inside a Goop building?”

“I’m at my desk,” said Shebeiskowski. “Moxley, what’s the holing problem?”

“This is going to sound weird,” said Moxley, “but you have to listen, and you have to believe me.”

It took Moxley a while to get the whole story out, including the part where a synthetic duplicate of Shebeiskowski tried to murder him. Finally, though, Sheb was more curious than skeptical.

“Say I almost believe you,” Shebeiskowski said.  “What then?”

“I need a safe place to go through the rest of Ray’s files,” said Moxley.  “Whoever’s into this, they know everything. They’re hooked into the networks, including the governmental nodes. I don’t dare stay out in public, not for long. They’ll find me or put another of those synthetic killers on me. Maybe more. Honestly, Sheb, it’s a miracle you’re alive. I was sure the thing would have killed you to take your place.”

“I didn’t know you cared,” said Shebeiskowski. “So what do you want from me?”

“I hate to admit it, but I need Goop involvement on this,” said Mox. “And worse, it’s gotta be somebody I trust. You’re pretty much it, Sheb. I know we don’t like each other much, but I’m pretty sure you’re not in on this.”

“That about the size of it, then?”

“Yeah,” said Moxley. “You know my friend Lobby?”

“You know I do.”

“Meet me there,” said Moxley. “Don’t access the network for travel directions, whatever you do. We have no way of knowing what they can monitor and what they can’t.”

“They?”

“Just meet me at Lobby’s,” said Mox. “Somewhere in Ray’s case files is proof of who’s manufacturing these synthoids. Or something close enough to proof that they were willing to murder Ray to shut him up.”

“How long will it take you to get there?” asked Sheb.

“I should be there in—”

Only then did Moxley see the hydrogen lorry that smashed nose-first into the side of his car.

Technocracy: How Fake Science Leads to Democrat Oppression

My WND Technocracy column this week is about the libs’ use of faked science to make their points. Read the full column here in WND News.

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 22: “Fire and Brimstone”

Sara Lindsey was already drawing her pistol when Detective Moxley told her to run. The thing that looked like Phillips lunged with its carving knife, but the detective was up, grabbing the silver serving tray in both hands. Her good china and the tea kettle crashed to the floor. Moxley cracked the serving tray across the Phillips-creature’s face. The sound was like a gong. Moxley was a big man and put his considerable weight behind the blow.

Phillips, or the creature that looked like him, fell to hands and knees, its head cocked at a bizarre angle. Valma’s impersonator stepped over its partner, raising the machete for a killing blow, headed straight for Moxley.

Put the front sight on the target, Lindsey told herself. Take a breath. Let half out. Squeeze the trigger—

The Makarov barked. Lindsey fired twice, then twice more. Explosive-cored rounds drilled through Valma’s face, knocking chunks from her skull and dislodging one eye. The mess that resulted was thick and slimy, without color. There was no blood.

Behind her, she could hear Moxley beating the Phillips-creature with the serving tray. She could not look. Valma had faltered, but now she raised the machete once more. Lindsey emptied the remaining rounds in her pistol’s magazine, dumping every shot into Valma’s ruined face.

Valma dropped to her knees. She scarcely had a head any more. The stalk of her neck was a shredded horror. The floor, and the Valma creature’s shoulders, were drenched in whatever goo these synthetic monsters contained. “Valma” waved her arms blindly in the air, her fingers clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing.

“Don’t,” said Moxley, “Go. Near. It.” Each word was punctuated by another furious blow with the serving tray. Moxley was hammering away at the Phillips impersonator’s head. He had caved it in, practically split it in two, and was chopping with the edge of the tray as one might with an axe. Phillips’ impersonator was now on its stomach, its legs twitching, its arms grabbing at the study’s ruined carpet.

Lindsey felt mildly nauseous. She looked down at her empty pistol, which she was still holding on the synthetic Valma’s body. She had no spare magazines for it. She could not remember the last time she had taken it to the shooting range.

Moxley appeared next to her.  He was florid and sweating. He was also breathing hard enough that she feared he might have a heart attack then and there.

“Detective,” she said, placing the empty pistol on the seat of her damaged chair.  “Now that we have thoroughly destroyed my study… are you well?”

“As well,” Moxley said, wheezing, “as… I’m going to be.”  He slumped against the wall of the study, careful not to lean on any of the bookshelves built into the plaster.  “They’re strong,” he said. “And they’re fast. But they’re not really much worse than a healthy person. Their heads. Their heads are soft. And there’s something weird about how they behave. It’s like this pair was holding back. I’ve seen them become much more aggressive. These two were much less difficult to kill than the last couple I tangled with.”

“So it would seem,” said Lindsey. “Should we call the authorities?”

“I shot one of them in the abdomen before,” said Moxley. He gestured to the revolver in his waistband. At Lindsey’s pointed glance, he said, “Oh. It’s empty. I don’t have any ammo. Don’t have money to buy any, either.”

“I imagine I could lend you some chits,” said Lindsey. “This is twice you’ve saved my life. It seems only fair. You were saying?”

“Shooting them in the torso doesn’t seem to help,” said Moxley. “Not unless you have a lot more firepower than a handgun. But the head. Must be where the main processor is, or whatever. I dunno. I’m not a technician.” He looked left, then right, scanning the room as if he were searching for something.

“What is it, Detective?”

“A hunch. If these two were holding back, there might have been a reason for it. Is there somewhere in this house big enough to hide a couple of bodies?” said Moxley. “Someplace you don’t often go. Not your walk-in bedroom closet, in other words.”

“Oh dear,” said Lindsey. “I suppose… The pantry, perhaps? That’s generally Valma’s domain, if it is anyone’s.”

“Show me,” said Moxley.

Lindsey led the detective to the kitchen, through the servant’s hallway leading from it, and to the door of the pantry. Moxley warned her off as they approached, so she stood well off and let him examine the door. When the big man was satisfied, he opened the louvered doors, very slowly.

Phillips and Valma lay inside. Moxley, with some difficulty, bent to put his fingers on their necks. Lindsey held her breath.

“Are they…?” she said.

“They’re alive,” said Moxley. “Possibly tranqed somehow. They’re deep under. I don’t see any marks or bruises. One of our synthoids in the study probably has an inducer or a syringe or something on its person. If you can call it a person.”

“I’ll call for a medical unit,” said Lindsey. “And while I’m at it, Detective, give me your coat. Your sleeve is soaked through with blood, not to mention ruined. I’ll put it in my printer and have it mended.”

“Thanks, Councilwoman.”

“I think we’re at the point of first names,” said Lindsey. “Call me Sara.”

“Harold.”

“You don’t look like a Harold,” said Lindsey. “What do people call you?”

“Mox.”

“That’s much more appropriate.”

 

* * *

 

Wearing his newly mended coat and with a pocket full of chits Lindsey insisted on “loaning” him, Moxley sank once more into the chair in the study. Lindsey perched on the edge of her own chair, sharing it with the empty gun. It would not belong before the authorities arrived for a follow-up investigation, but they had a few minutes. The initial incident reports had been filed by Goops. Medical first-responders had taken Phillips and Valma for examination and observation. The “dead” synthetics had been removed as well, but by government functionaries Lindsey had summoned for the purpose. Moxley did not ask where they synthoids were being taken. He figured he had one of his own; he could not begrudge Lindsey the same.

“Tell me, Mox,” said Lindsey. “Do you follow politics?”

“I try not to.”

“Then you probably don’t know that I have strong ties to the Medical Hegemony on the mainland.”

“Okay.”

“At present, the Hegemony bans experimentation on, and development toward, synthetic forms of artificial intelligence. I support this ban. So did Theopolis. So did other prominent Hongkongtown politicians who have been murdered in recent months. The official stance is driven by, as you might imagine, what the Hegemony considers the problem of Augmentation Sickness. ‘The plague of the modern world,’ I believe one prominent Human Services agent termed it. His paper on the issue caused quite a stir.”

“Right,” said Mox. “Anybody who crosses more than a third cybernetic implants is considered an Augment and thus sanctioned by Northam Law.”

“Precisely,” said Lindsey. “The ban on synthetic forms of life is intended to prevent a further worsening of the Augment problem. We are supposed to be concerned that the Augments will begin manufacturing themselves. That they will produce an army of synthetic compatriots and swamp the world in their numbers.”

“Anarchy,” said Moxley. “Toads falling from the sky. Fire and brimstone.”

“Yes,” said Lindsey. “I am a medical doctor. I am fully credentialed through the Hegemony. But I don’t support the ban because I fear the Augments. Quite the contrary. I think the percentage laws are too strict, and I would like to see Augmented citizens restored to full rights within our society. I think the stigma associated with Augmentation Sickness — even the emotionally loaded name for this drive, this compulsion — prevents us from properly investigating it. I would like to see honest, objective research conducted.”

“Then I don’t get it,” said Moxley. “Why don’t you fight the ban, if you’re not an Og-hater?”

“Please, Detective,” said Lindsey. “That’s such an impolite term.”

“Sorry.”

“To answer your question, the Hegemony’s ban isn’t just a bid for medical control, though that’s what undergirds it,” she said. “The ban prevents corporations like BDM and Caricara Pharmaceutical from exploiting the Augments, from weaponizing them. If we allow the likes of BDM to develop synthetic consciousness, it’s only a matter of time before they’re creating travesties of living beings that are neither augmented humans nor fully artificial constructs like robots. Imagine the public panic that would ensue of word got out that such creatures were being created. It would harm the cause of Augment rights, not help it… and these synthoids, as you call them, these things that can imitate people we know, they are precisely what the ban was intended to contraindicate.”

“That’s not good.”

“No,” said Lindsey. “It most definitely is not. Have I told you what you came to learn?”

“I’d say you have,” said Mox. “And, uh, thank you. For everything.”

“Thank you, Detective. Mox. Please be careful. And if you need anything, I think I still owe you a favor or two before I consider us even.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, ma’am. Uh, Sara.”

The big man excused himself and left. Lindsey went back to the study, touched a concealed stud on one of the bookshelves, and waited for the facade to retract. Beneath the artfully arranged book bindings was a full computing and communications kiosks. From its multiple screens she watched as Moxley drove off her property, piloting what had to be the sorriest ground car she had seen in years. She shook her head.

Keying a sequence from memory into the communications terminal, she waited for a few moments before the screen came alive. The young blonde girl who appeared was barely a teenager, perhaps still a preteen. She was lovely.

“Councilwoman Lindsey,” said the girl.

“You were right,” said Lindsey. “Detective Moxley was here. I’m transmitting you the frequency of the tracking device in the liner of his coat.”

The girl’s eyes went to a different area of the screen as she read and, if Lindsey’s suspicions were correct, immediately memorized the numbers. “Thank you,” she said.

“There’s more,” said Lindsey. “One of the big private medical firms is moving ahead with the development of the types of synthetics we feared they might. They’re using them as assassins. Evidently the synthetic beings can imitate other people, even fool DNA and identity scans.”

“That could be very damaging to our cause.”

“Yes,” said Lindsey.  “Although I believe I’ve set Moxley in the right direction. You’re certain you don’t want me to give him more active assistance?”

“We have experience with Detective Moxley,” said the girl. “He should be up to the task. I’ll make sure.”

“Do you require more resources from me?”

“No,” said the young blonde. “I have Chance, Julian, and Gabriel stationed in Hongkongtown should I need them. We’ll see to it, don’t worry. And Councilwoman? Please take measures to protect yourself. I have faith in Detective Moxley, but he’s only one man.”

“Thank you, Aria,” said Lindsey.  “I will. I’ll let you know if I learn more.”

The blonde girl nodded. The screen went dark.

Councilwoman Sara Lindsey suddenly felt very tired.

Technocracy: How Libs Lie About Science to “Prove” Their Points

Read my WND Technocracy column this week, about lies, damned lies, and liberals using “science” to marginalize conservatives, live here at WND News.

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 21: “A Confluence of Factors”

“Oh dear,” said Councilwoman Sara Lindsey. “You don’t look at all well, young man.”

“I think you’re taking liberties with the title,” said Moxley. Holding his ribs with one arm, he gestured to doorway.  “May I come in, ma’am?”

“Well I can’t have you dropping dead on my doorstep,” said Lindsey. She moved aside to let him enter. She was not quite fast enough to hide the gun behind her back.

“You won’t need that,” said Moxley. “That’s quite an antique, ma’am. I don’t believe I’ve seen one of those in quite a few years. Chrome or nickel-plated?”

“Nickel,” said Lindsey. “Edgar, my husband, hated chrome. The Makarov belonged to his grandfather. A family heirloom.”

“You can still buy ammunition?”

Lindsey gestured with the gun, which was as heavy as it looked. “There’s a specialty shop in Gunpowder Heights that remanufactures it for me,” she said. “Sabot rounds with explosive cores.”

“More firepower than you’ll require just now, I think,” said Mox.

“True,” said Lindsey. She tucked the gun into her waistband behind her back. “I could probably knock you down barehanded,” said Lindsey. “You had better come take a chair in the study.”

Mox did as she suggested. Lindsey’s home was located in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Hongkongtown, the northern and western most quadrant of the atoll. Her home as appointed as one might expect from an elderly politician. It was extremely tasteful, very expensive, and looked more like a prop than a place someone lived. The books in the study appeared to be expensive, too. Or they were selected specifically because they looked expensive. Nobody bothered to read paper books anymore; they were props for the wealthy.

“All of them,” said Lindsey.

“I’m sorry?” said Mox.

“I see you looking,” said Lindsey. “I’ve read them all, Detective. Every book in this study.”

Moxley smiled. “You know my name.”

“When a man saves your life, you take the time to ask after him,” said Lindsey.  “Tell me, Detective, to what do I owe the honor of your intervention on my behalf?”

“How do you know that’s what it was?” said Mox. “The Goops weren’t convinced.”

“Please, young man,” said Lindsey. “Don’t insult my intelligence. I know what I saw. And it would take an idiot not to draw a connection to the attack on Theopolis. He wasn’t the only one, either.”

“Just doing my civic duty, ma’am,” said Moxley.

“In a pig’s eye,” said Lindsey. “Would you like some tea?”

“I, uh, yeah,” said Moxley. “Yes, ma’am. I would like some tea.”

“I’ll mix in some Anycaine,” said Lindsey. “Should help dull some of the pain. Who worked you over, Detective?”

“Sort of a… confluence of factors, ma’am,” said Mox.

“Spoken like a man who works for insurance companies,” said Lindsey. She offered him a slight nod and then disappeared through the doorway. Moxley sat puddled in one of the study’s overstuffed chairs, grateful for the respite.

The kitchen was adjacent to the study. He could hear Councilwoman Lindsey filling a kettle with water. Rich people, he thought. Always doing things the hard way.

“How did you know, Detective?” said Lindsey. “About the assassination attempt.”

“It’s part of a case I’m working on,” said Moxley from his chair. “I strongly suspect that somebody is producing a new kind of… well, robot isn’t right. It’s an artificially intelligent creature of some kind. A friend of mine called it a ‘synthoid.’ I thought they had been manufactured to imitate certain people, to get close to their targets, but now I think maybe they have the ability to imitate other people. Allows them to infiltrate better and get closer to their targets. In Theopolis’ case, somebody killed his bodyguard and one of these synthoids took the dead man’s place. Then it killed Theopolis.”

“So the man from the square today—”

“A synthoid assassin,” said Moxley. “In the form of a Goop named Siengold.”

The Councilwoman reappeared in the study, this time carrying a silver tray.  She put the tray down on a small serving table in the study and handed Moxley a teacup on a saucer. She sat down and took a sip from her own cup. “So this Mister Siengold is probably dead,” she said.

“Most likely,” said Moxley. He took a tentative sip from his tea. It was surprisingly good. The warmth that spread through him was familiar. She hadn’t been kidding about the Anycaine.  “This all started when I began looking into the last days of a friend of mine. Ray Neiring. He was a Government Inspector. I think he was killed by one of the synthoids. In searching through his old case files, I discovered the link between you, Theopolis, and the other assassinations. But I haven’t been able to figure out why.”

“You seem like an intelligent fellow,” said Lindsey. “Why haven’t you put it together?”

“I haven’t had time,” said Moxley. “People have been trying to kill me. I need some time to skull out the data. It’s all in Ray Neiring’s files, I’m sure of it. And I’ve got one of the synthoids. It took the shape of someone I knew. A guy named Sheb. Probably killed him too, although that’s not a definite. I don’t know as Sheb was anywhere nearby. Possibly it just needed to take my be surprise, get my guard down.”

“If your friend was killed, I’m sorry,” said Lindsey.

“I’m not,” said Moxley. “Didn’t like him much.”

Lindsey finished her tea and set the cup and saucer on the serving table.  “What is your next step, Detective?”

“Well, ma’am, I think for one, you should assume people are still trying to kill you,” he said.  “If you’ve got security measures here, I would activate them and stay holed up. Don’t trust anyone. Anybody you know could be—”

“Oh, Phillips,” said Lindsey.  “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Mox looked up and turned pale. Standing in the doorway of the study was an older man in a three-piece suit. If not for the slack look on his face, the detective would have taken him for a butler. Directly behind the butler was a woman in a maid’s uniform.

“Councilwoman,” said Moxley.

“Detective Moxley,” said Lindsey, “this is Phillips, my assistant, and Valma, my housekeeper. Phillips? Is something wrong?”

“Something wrong?” said Phillips. “No, ma’am.” In his right hand, he held an enormous carving knife.

Behind Phillips, Valma moved her hand from behind her back to reveal the machete she carried. Moxley pushed himself to his feet.

“Councilwoman,” said Mox.  “Run.”

Technocracy: “Gender Fluidity,” A Danger to Both Mind and Body

Read my WND Technocracy column this week, on the dangers of activism and “gender fluidity,” live now in WND News.

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 20: “I’ve Got a Theory”

Moxley was still holding the plastic invoice Jimmy had given him when he reached his car and climbed inside. How he was going to pay it, he didn’t know. That wasn’t his biggest problem right now. He sighed, sank back into the seat, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He wanted nothing more than to sleep. His lungs burned. His side ached. And he had a contact sunburn on the backs of his hands that was starting to ache something badly.

That sort of thing happened when you lobbed electromagnetic bombs around inside.

Hogey had, despite his irritation, patched up Moxley with the world’s oldest first aid kit. Right now six tablets of ancient acetaminophen were doing inadequate battle with Moxley’s cracked ribs. At least the kit’s binding paste had worked, sealing the wounds in his arm and the split in his lip. The inside of his mouth tasted like socks.

His phone had been vibrating furiously for the last half hour, but he refused to acknowledge it. It couldn’t be anything good. It was only thanks to Hogey’s paranoia that the crowd gun hadn’t blown the facade off the storefront. The building was reinforced with a structural soak, something that had been popular right after the Border Wars. Hogey would be scraping synthoid skin and hair out of wall tiles for weeks, but his shop was in one piece and nobody had gotten hurt. Well. Nobody but Jensen and Detweiler, who weren’t really Jensen and Detweiler anyway.

He had placed several calls to Ben Garrison. Either the man was busy or he was in no mood for a call from Moxley. The detective had not left a message. He rarely did. Voice recordings were the sorts of things that could come back to haunt you later. He switched on the car.

“I don’t know, just weird!” muttered the Dayliner in Moxley’s voice. The engine shuddered, then steadied itself. “Raisin porous jamcrab hammerwillow.”

“You can say that again,” said Moxley to no one. “It’s been a jamcrab hammerwillow of a day.”

“Sacknowledged,” whispered the car.

His phone began to vibrate again. This time, he did thumb it. The holo-display said it was Garrison.

“Moxley,” he said.

“This is Garrison,” said the older man. “I got your messages. You were right.”

“Sir?” said Mox.

“We found Jensen and Detweiler in a garbage pod on the slideway outside the Capital,” said Garrison. “Shot through the head, both of them. An obvious execution. No signs of any peripheral crime. No sexual violation. Chits still in their wallets. Whoever hid their bodies wasn’t counting on keeping their murders secret for long, though. We did a simple network search for their faces and then grid-scanned their last known location. Interestingly, the search indicated that the two of them were scanned entering Hongkongtown.”

“The synthoids,” said Moxley.

“The what?”

“Nothing, sir,” said Moxley. “If you thought they were in Hongkongtown—”

“There was a gap,” said Garrison. “Not a big one, but it was there. A time lapse, too. I’m not an imbecile, Moxley. Anyone could see something wasn’t right. Whoever murdered Jensen and Detweiler took their places and continued on to intercept you.”

“Which means they must have been a perfect match,” said Moxley.

“That’s right,” said Garrison. “DNA, facial recog, voice print… they passed all of it to get through Goop security and take custody of you. I’m hoping you can tell me how that’s possible.”

“I’ve got a theory,” said Moxley. “I can ask my guy. But he’s out of his depth.”

“So are you.”

“Yes sir,” said Moxley. “With respect, you have a leak somewhere.”

“Obviously,” said Garrison. “And until I know who and why, I’m not sending anyone else. You’re on your own, Moxley.”

“I understand, sir. I’ll try to keep you informed. As long as I’m not, you know. Dead.”

“That’s all I can ask. Good luck… detective.”

Moxley stared at his phone. The connection had closed. He thumbed the device again and called Lobby.

“Yeah?” said the technician.

“Lob,” said Mox. “I’ve got a theory.”

 

* * *

 

“I’ve got a theory,” said the hooker. She was all curves, that one, sporting a fresh laser paintjob that made her look like a zebra. Her minidress stuck to her in all the right places and was missing entirely in the righter places. Moxley looked up from his table, then back to the dealer.

“Hit me,” he said.

The robot dealer dispensed another card. Moxley kept his expression level as the machine raked in his chips. Twenty-five. A bust. Moxley swallowed the last of his bourbon and signaled for another. A spigot above the table descended to refill his glass.

“My theory,” said the girl, whispering in his ear, “is that you’ve still got enough money to afford me. If we leave now.” He breath was hot on his neck.

“You’re young enough to be daughter,” said Moxley, looking her up and down. He managed to turn away long enough to check the table. The robot dealer stared at him, its patience endless in the absence of other paying customers, waiting for the trigger to deal again.

“I’m old enough to show you some new things,” she whispered.

“One more hand,” said Moxley.

“You’ll need two for me,” said the girl.

“Deal,” said Moxley to the robot.

 

* * *

 

“Yeah?” said Lobby.

“You said these synthetic things were unstable, right?” said Moxley.

“Yeah.”

“I can’t wrap my head around the timeline,” said Mox. “Two more of them just tried to whack me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Mox. “I was figuring, you make a robot or whatever that looks like a person, it takes time, probably, but it wouldn’t be hard. They make simulacra of celebrities all the time, right? But these things could fool identification scans. And Jensen and Detweiler—“

“Who?”

“—Jensen and Detweiler were only just assigned to me. There couldn’t possibly have time to build duplicates of them. Not unless these things could somehow imitate a person right away. You know, shape change into them?”

“Yeah,” said Lobby.

“So do you figure it’s possible?” said Mox. “Something about these things is unstable by design. Could one of them change to another person, just off the street? Like an electric Halloweeve mask.”

“Yeah,” said Lobby. “I mean, maybe. If we can print a steak I guess we can reconfigure a lump of protein, maybe even bend the molecules to ape the DNA. The technology would be incredibly complicated. And very expensive.”

“Don’t sell our dead one just yet,” said Moxley.  “ I keep thinking about Theopolis, murdered by his own bodyguard. Say I was in the political assassination business. An army of synthetic robots that can shape-change into loved ones or colleagues of the victim… that would be pretty handy.”

“Yeah,” said Lobby again.

“Grapefruit shopping oar,” said the Dayliner.

“What?” said Lobby.

“Nothing,” said Moxley. “Lobby, can you get me an address for Councilwoman Sara Lindsey?”

“Not hard,” said Lobby.  “Why?”

“Because there are a lot of these things running around,” said Moxley.

“Councilwomen?”

“Synthoids,” said Moxley. “Get me the address, Lob. And hurry.”

“Sending it to your phone,” said Lobby.

“Thanks, Lob,” said Moxley.  “And Lob?”

“Yeah.”

“Watch your back.”

Moxley put his phone away. He slammed the accelerator forward.

The Dayliner sped on, spewing smoke from both ends.

Technocracy — “Hillary Hath Spoken: Change Your Beliefs!”

Liberals sure do have a problem with free media. Recently, Obama demanded that Fox News change how it reports on him, while Hillary informed us that those religious types had better change their belief systems to suit her. Read about it in WND News.